


One is Silver, One is Gold

by adventurerofthewrittenworld



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16926078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventurerofthewrittenworld/pseuds/adventurerofthewrittenworld
Summary: Hermione and her friends return to Hogwarts to complete their seventh year after being informed by the new headmistress that it is mandatory. Upon arriving there, she realizes nothing is the same. Suffering from post-war trauma, she, like many other survivors, has recurring nightmares about the events that took place mere months ago at the hands of a deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. But that is not all that changes. She and the rest of the “Eighth years” are paired randomly with members of other houses to promote inter house unity, which is deemed a priority in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts. What will she do when she is paired with Draco Malfoy, a figure that dominates her nightmares after the recent traumatic events at Malfoy Manor? Will the two, opposite in everything they represent, be able to coexist? And will a guilt-stricken Draco be able to find redemption after the war? A story of love and redemption between two lifelong foes who come to find solace in each other’s arms.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> CONTEXT: Story takes place post-Battle of Hogwarts, and is not compatible with the epilogue. It is mandatory for all students to return to Hogwarts to complete their final year of education. Bellatrix is not dead. She and the rest of the surviving Death Eaters are in Azkaban, serving a life sentence. Voldemort is dead, the war is over.

Meet new love,  
Forget the old,  
One is Silver,  
One is Gold

HERMIONE

Smoke rises from the scarlet train, into the brisk London air. I pull my jacket tighter around me to ward off the early August chill, and lug my trolley up onto the Hogwarts Express. A strange rush of nostalgia washes over me as the witch with the trolley shuffles down the aisles, grumbling about the cold weather.   
I never thought I would board this train again.   
The war had long wiped out any sense of hope I had that I would return to a normal life. With all the killing, and the gore, and all the people we had lost… I took a few months off, after everything was over, to go track my parents down. And though the war had taken some vital part of me—seeing my parents again had eased some of that.   
I settle into a seat by the frosted window in an empty compartment, and my hand slips inside my coat pocket to where my Hogwarts letter is folded in a neat square. I had received the owl from the new Headmistress last week, but I wasn’t quite surprised. Even after everything, Hogwarts still feels like my home. It feels right that I should finish my last year here before saying my final farewell to it.   
But even so, I’d hugged Mum a little longer this time, had lingered a bit longer by the station with Dad, perhaps unwilling to let go. To leave again, after everything, seemed foolish. But perhaps a part of me was selfish, for not wanting them to see how changed I was by the war, how wounded and damaged it had made me. Perhaps it made me a bad daughter for not wanting to explain to them that I had endured horrors beyond their imagine—to save them, and save others. Because in these last few weeks at home, I had been pleasant, warm, because I had not wanted things to change for us. Because it hadn’t—not for them. They had lived peaceful lives, happy and joyful, while I suffered fighting for the lives of thousands. And I am glad I spared them from the horrors of the war, but I can’t ever talk to them about it, because they don’t understand. And even if they could, I don’t want them to. I don’t want them to see that dark, twisted part of me—the part of me that broke in the war and was never the same after.   
The compartment door slides open, interrupting my thoughts, and Ron, Harry, and Ginny all file in. Their faces look as I imagine mine must: A mixture of sorrow, longing, relief, and bittersweet joy.   
“The weather’s a bit down,” Ron says, voice muffled from his scarf which is strewn hastily around his neck. He tugs it down, loosening it, and plops into the seat beside me. His nose is pink from the cold, and his cheeks are wind-flushed.   
Harry is wrestling with his bag, trying in vain to zip it shut.   
“What is that?” Ron asks warily, voicing the question I had been about to ask.   
“Nothing,” he grunts, finally pulling the zipper shut. “It’s one of Fred and George’s—” He cuts himself off, his face going taut. The compartment goes silent, and he finishes hoarsely, “Fred and George made them for their shop before the war.”  
Ron is utterly silent, his face closed off. Next to him, Ginny is shaking as if she is going to be sick out the window.   
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, before jumping to her feet and leaving, a quiet sob wracking out of her.   
Harry sighs, his eyes shuttering as he watches her leave. He rises to his feet, “I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t wait before sliding the compartment door open and leaving.   
“Ron,” I whisper, feeling my eyes prickle with unshed tears. He doesn’t move, but a tear slips past his cheek, and I wrap my arms around him and hug him tightly.   
“He’s gone,” he says, his voice hollow and rough with tears.

I had let Ron fall asleep on my shoulder, and with Harry and Ginny still gone, I savor the silence of the compartment and the gentle lulling of the engine. My own eyes are fluttering shut, heavy from the weariness and exhaustion of today, but just as I drift off, the compartment door slides open once again.   
It’s Ernie Macmillan, looking as though he’s just seen a ghost.   
“What is it?” I ask, my head immediately jerking up. Ron grumbles in his sleep, but shifts his head off me to lean against the wall of the compartment.   
“It’s really you,” he breathes. “I can’t believe we’re all here again.”  
I give him a sad smile, and say quietly, “Me neither. But it’s good to see you.” It’s good to see everyone, I think. Because it means you all lived through the war.   
He nods once as if he understands, and then he says, “The prefects are supposed to go to the front of the train.”  
I give him a half-smile, “We’re eighth years. Are we still prefects?”  
He grins, “We better be.”  
I glance towards Ron, and then back towards Ernie, who merely shrugs. 

A few minutes later, we’re all gathered at the front of the train,—Ron, still bleary eyed from his nap,—in the largest compartment. I see familiar faces, and greet some of them, but the general atmosphere is quiet, subdued, and bittersweet. I’ve retreated back into a corner with a set of armchairs with Ron when a flash of blonde silver catches my eye. My heart stumbles for a beat. Not in surprise, but in fear.   
And like a dam being unleashed, the memories come rushing back. My head being pressed against the stiff marble, my back twisting and arching underneath that cruel face, and the raven black hair that brushed my cheeks. I lay there on the floor, screaming until I was numb from terror, until my body couldn’t stop shaking from the pain. But through it all, I had glimpsed his face. And now, it was part of the nightmare.   
I turn my head to look for him again, if only to see if I perhaps merely imagined it, but he’s nowhere to be found. A small mercy, I suppose. 

❖❖❖

The Great Hall is packed with students, even more so this year. We had greeted Hagrid at the door just as he was hauling another table through the large double doors. The room had been magically altered to accommodate more people, but it was still a tight fit. Harry, Ron, and I find three empty seats at the Gryffindor table and claim them, Ginny and Luna having left to find their own friends.   
“There are so many missing faces,” I say quietly.   
“Hermione,” Ron begins, but I flush and shake my head.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—we should talk about something else.”  
But Harry was looking behind me, and Ron had followed his gaze. I whirl, my lips parting in surprise as I saw who they were gaping at.   
“Malfoy?” Ron says incredulously.   
“Was he on the train?” Harry asks.  
My throat tightens. No—  
“I didn’t see him in the prefects compartment,” Ron says, still staring at Malfoy in disbelief, angry lines beginning to take form on his face.   
“How could McGonagall let him come back?” Harry asks angrily.  
“I saw him on the train,” I say finally, keeping my eyes firmly averted from the Slytherin table where he’s sitting alone—without Crabbe and Goyle at his side for once. With a sudden pang, I remember that Crabbe had died in that final battle. One more face we would never see, no matter that we were never on the same side. Even if he had helped Voldemort, he was a student—we had gone to school with him for years.  
“I’m going to speak to McGonagall,” Harry declares, his face resolute.   
“Harry—” I begin, warning him.   
But he’s already swept up his robes and left the table.   
“Where’s he going?” Ron demands. “McGonagall’s at the professor’s table.”  
I turn my head and see that Ron is right; Harry isn’t headed for McGonagall. A moment later, he’s left the Great Hall, and a brief silence falls between me and Ron.   
The unspoken words hang between us, and I shift in my seat, not quite sure what to say.   
“Both of his parents are in Azkaban,” I say quietly.   
“Hermione, don’t start feeling sorry for him. He and his family got everything they deserved. He shouldn’t be here, and once McGonagall realizes it’s a mistake, he’ll be boarding the next train back to London.”   
I swallow. “I don’t think McGonagall made a mistake.”  
“Hermione—”  
“Do you?”  
He falters, and then starts again, “Hermione, we’ll figure this out. He won’t be sticking around for the whole year with the students he was happy to kill just a few months ago.”   
I draw my cloak tighter around me as I shiver. The temperature feels like it has dropped a dozen degrees. Ron notices, his hands reaching for the cloak around his own shoulders as he unclasps it. He hands it to me, frowning slightly.   
“Here. You’re cold.”  
I shake my head, “I’m fine.   
He retreats his hand, awkwardly stuffing it into a crumpled heap into his bag.   
“Ron, we should talk,” I say, my brows lowering as I gauge his face as it closes off at the mention of this topic.   
“I’m fine, Hermione.”   
“I know you are,” I assure, “I just want to tell you—” I cut off, because I don’t know what to say. Nothing will make him feel better, and certainly not anything from me. I had broken up with him in the Burrow, in that cramped attic bedroom of his. I had been horrible, leaving him just months after he lost Fred, but I couldn’t do it anymore. I don’t regret it, but everytime we’re alone together, it feels different.   
Thankfully, I am spared from having to say something, because Professor McGonagall—Headmistress McGonagall—clears the tables and gathers everyone’s attention for her start of the term speech.   
“Welcome everyone, to a new year at Hogwarts,” she says, smiling as everyone claps and a few cheers can be heard from the other end of the Gryffindor table.   
“These past few months of rebuilding have been difficult, but we have repaired the castle in time for our first term this year. I know many of you were at the battle in this very castle a few months ago. I know many of you lost parents, friends, family, and fellow classmates. I would like to take a moment of silence to honor every witch and wizard who fought bravely with us, and died to protect the wizarding world from the threat of Voldemort.”  
The Great Hall goes silent, every face solemn and haunted with memories that still chase me from my sleep every night.   
After a moment, she continues, her voice hoarser than it had been before, “I have decided to reopen this school and take on the burden of Headmistress for the sole reason that I feel it is my responsibility to keep this school open for those who want to learn. For those who have nowhere else to go, who have lost their homes and families, and who have always found a place here.  
“As you all know,” she continued, “There remain a significant portion of students who missed their final year at Hogwarts due to the war. They will be joining us this term, and sharing our dorms and classes. Some rooming arrangements have changed, so if you are a student returning as an eighth year, please come see me after the feast in my office for more details. Now, I expect we’re all tired after a long day, so I won’t keep you any longer. Here’s to a great year at Hogwarts,” she finishes, raising her glass as everyone in the room echoes the movement.   
“Rooming arrangements have changed?” I ask, turning to Ron. All across the hall, whispers are spreading.   
Ron gives me an unconcerned look, and says, “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get bigger bunks.”


	2. Chapter Two

DRACO

I wander into the Great Hall, brushing off the stares and whispers. I hear them talk, some of their words floating over to me. Even the Slytherins despise me, even the ones who had fought with my parents and the Death Eaters. Their parents are with mine now, rotting away in Azkaban.   
“He’s a danger to the students,” I hear a Ravenclaw say sourly, glaring at me. I vaguely remember him being a prefect. I ignore him, ignore all of them as I take a seat at the end of the Slytherin table.   
Some first year takes the seat to my right, no doubt oblivious to who I am. He stares at me picking at my food, and then says brightly,   
“Hi, I’m Camden.”  
I shoot him a wary look and try to remember if I’d ever been that tiny and annoying when I was a first year.   
“Draco,” I say, intentionally leaving my surname out. He hadn’t told me his, anyway.   
He nods, as if understanding something. “Were you here—a few months ago?”  
I bristle, “Yes.”  
He seems inclined to ask me more about it, so I switch the subject. “Are you a muggleborn?” The term doesn’t seem as foreign to me as it once had. I had decided a lot of things after the war, had deemed some things pointless. I wasn’t sure if I believed that anti-muggleborn hatred anymore. Wasn’t sure about much of anything these days.   
His face shifts, though I can’t quite read it, and he nods. “I got my letter a few weeks ago. My parents don’t understand. They tried to talk me out of coming here. I think they’re just scared, you know, especially after everything.”  
I nod. I understood.   
“You seem sad,” he observes, “Are you alright?”  
I study him, and say, “I’d rather not be here.”  
He gives me an incredulous look. “I’ve heard this place is really fun though. You don’t like it here?”   
I force a smile, though it comes out sadded than I intended. “I used to.”  
He opens his mouth to say something, but just then, the hall erupts with applause for McGonagall’s start of the term speech.   
My mind drifts off to when I’d received that letter in the mail. I’d thought it a taunt, or perhaps a pity letter. There was nothing in my letter that indicated that she acknowledged that she was inviting the very enemy she triumphed in defeating back into her castle. Some prideful part of me begged me not to go, told me that I should stay in my cold, lonely manor. That empty manor…   
Her words draw me out of my stupor, “As you all know, there remain a significant portion of students who missed their final year at Hogwarts due to the war. They will be joining us this term, and sharing our dorms and classes. Some rooming arrangements have changed, so if you are a student returning as an eighth year, please come see me after the feast in my office for more details. Now, I expect we’re all tired after a long day, so I won’t keep you any longer. Here’s to a great year at Hogwarts.”  
I only distantly register what she has said. Different rooming arrangements? It only makes sense, I suppose. Though I had assumed that since there were only a handful of people returning, it wouldn’t be different than last time.  
I leave my chocolate tart untouched, mutter a hasty farewell to Camden, and leave the Great Hall to find the Headmistress’s office.   
It takes a bit of wandering, but I finally find the large oak doors, repainted after the war tore it down. I raise my fist to knock, but it opens before I get the chance to, the door magically opening on its hinges.   
I walk inside, immediately spotting McGonagall at the front of the room, seated in the polished mahogany table, stacked with neat piles of papers, ink bottles, and quills. Standing around her desk are Potter, Weasley, Granger, a Hufflepuff I reckon is Ernie Macmillan, and several Ravenclaws in blue robes. There are some Hufflepuffs, standing near the corner, murmuring amongst themselves. I am the only Slytherin, I notice, though it doesn’t surprise me. Most of the Slytherins who were on the wrong side of the war fled with their families, or are in Azkaban right now.   
McGonagall flicks her wand, and the door shuts behind me. She rises to her feet and stands in front of her desk.   
“I’ll get straight to the point, then.” She takes a small breath, as if steeling herself for what she’s about to say. “This war was caused by disunity amongst the wizarding community. Voldemort was the threat, yes, but his followers believed his message. There have been problems brewing in our community for a while now, and the war was an unleashing of those problems.”  
“What are you saying, Professor?” Ernie asks, his brows pushing together.   
“In an attempt to heal the rifts and bridge the distance between our Houses, I have decided to mix the pairings for the dormitories. Our founders did not create four separate houses so they might all fight one another. I believe this is a necessary step in healing from the war, so I ask you all to cooperate with me.”  
The words buzz in my head. Mixed pairings? I suppose I’d have to dorm with someone from another house, since I am the only Slytherin. I groan inwardly. It better not be Potter. Or Weasley. I don’t know which would be worse.   
She ignores the scattered protests and starts reading the names off of a list she conjures up with her wand. Potter gets paired with a squeaky sounding Hufflepuff girl, Weasley gets a burly Ravenclaw boy, and a few more pairings are rattled off.   
“Malfoy, you will be with Granger,” she calls, and immediately, my eyes flick to Granger’s.   
“Professor,” she protests, her face mixed with disdain—probably for me— and shock. She doesn’t meet my eyes once as she continues arguing with Professor McGonagall. Potter and Weasley join her, angrily saying words I can’t make out from here.   
“Enough!” she says, voice rising above their complaints. “Granger, I trust you will make the best of this pairing. Do not let my faith in you be misplaced.”  
Her face is distraught, but she nods. I glance at her again, and this time, she meets my eyes. She stares at me, with so many emotions on her face, I can hardly sort through them all. Her throat flickers, as she holds my gaze. Is she afraid? An uneasy thought flashes through my mind, a memory of a time during the war, from where her screams still haunt me. I push it away quickly, not wanting to think of it.   
The room slowly clears out as the pairings are all called, and I trail out the door, lingering awkwardly, wondering if we’re supposed to find our dormitories together.   
She steps out, accompanied by Potter and Weasley. They leave after a moment, off to find their own rooms, and she catches me waiting for her.   
Her eyes scan my face, and I wonder if my emotions are written on my face as much as hers are. She looks frustrated, angry, and wary, and I wonder if all of it is meant for me. “The password is blueberry tart,” is all she says, and then strides down the corridor swifter than necessary.   
“Hello to you too,” I mutter under my breath, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. 

I enter the dormitory to find Granger already inside, hauling her trunk into one of the connected rooms. There are two rooms, separated by a living room. The wall colors are neutral, mostly whites and browns, but the armchairs and the fireplace make it look cozy. A quick peek into my room tells me that it was obviously made for me; the walls and decor are all green and silver. After shuffling through my room and unpacking my trunk, I find a bathroom attached to the right wall.   
I step back into the shared common room and find Granger sitting on the couch, her head in her hands. She starts when she hears me enter, and her eyes are rimmed with red.   
“Why did it have to be you?” she asks with bone-chilling quiet.   
Her eyes, glazed with unshed tears and burning with hatred, makes me uncomfortable, but I fire back, “This isn’t a walk in the park for me, either.”  
It is the wrong thing to say.   
Her face flares with anger, and pure, undiluted rage replaces any traces of sadness. “How dare you say that, Malfoy? When your family is responsible for the deaths of so many people? I wonder how those families are doing now. They’re certainly not living in a manor worth more than most palaces, or living free and unburdened without facing even the slightest consequence for their choices!”   
“Free and unburdened?” I grit my teeth. “Is that how you think I’m living, Granger? What do you know about me?”   
“You have not suffered a single bit since the war,” she says without faltering.   
“You think I should be in Azkaban,” I say flatly, the realization hitting me like a brick to the face.   
“I think Dumbledore was wrong in trusting you. Forgiveness was his fatal mistake, and you exploited that weakness the way your father would.”  
The words are a blow to my chest, and I stumble back a little as she rises to her feet, crossing her arms over her chest. I try to find the words that will hurt her, the words I know will give me the edge I seek but nothing comes. Instead, my mind takes me to that night when I pointed a wand at him, and his body went toppling over the highest tower in this castle. I feel sick to my stomach.   
She shakes her head in loathing, “You disgust me.”  
I wonder, distantly, why those words hurt me as much as they do. Instead, I sneer, “You don’t belong in this school, Granger.” The words slip out of me, and I almost take them back. I guess after so many years of believing one thing, it has become part of my nature.   
“Maybe before the war, Malfoy. But take a look around. Voldemort’s supporters are more hated now than ever. Even I was surprised you came back, though I can’t say intellect has always been your strong suit.”  
“I came back because I can, because despite how much you all hate me, I’ve gotten away free.” I don’t know where those words come from. I don’t know where that confidence—that superiority and arrogance comes from. Because I haven’t felt that sure of myself in a long while. Not since before the war. But she has a way of making me vulnerable—of making me lash out.   
“You were there,” she breathes, her disgust now mingled with horror. “The night Harry, Ron, and I were taken to your manor, you were there.”  
My blood freezes in my veins. A horrible memory from the war, one that I have tried to forget in these past few months when I slept alone in that terrible, cold manor.   
“You watched me screaming on the floor as the life bled out of me. And in that moment, you could have chosen to help me. But instead, you stood there and did nothing, exactly as your father would.”  
“Stop—” I grit, hating that she makes me feel this way, that she has brought out the worst of me and dragged it out in the open.   
She ignores me, her face cold and detached. “You would have stood there and watched her torture me until I died. No, you didn’t give away our identities. But you were perfectly content to stand there watching. You might as well have been holding the wand over me.”  
I flinch at the venom in her tone.   
“I didn’t have a choice,” I plead, trying to convince myself more than her. “If I had done anything, Bellatrix would have done worse to me. She would have killed me!” I shout, my voice loaded with emotion and desperation.   
“You know your father would never have let her! You would have been fine!” she screams at me vehemently. “I guess my pain doesn’t matter—after all, I’m just a mudblood, right?”   
“Granger—” my voice softens, and I reach for her, to do what, I don’t know. But she steps back, her face flooded with horror and rage, and storms out of the dormitory before I can say anything else. When the door slams shut, something in me fractures. She leaves me there, sitting in our new dorm, wondering if anything I do will ever make up for what I have done.


	3. Chapter Three

HERMIONE

My heart is pounding as I turn the corner, getting myself far, far away from him. From that unbearable sneer, from the hurt that had flashed across his face that I tried not to let myself linger on. He deserved it. Every bit of pain and suffering I threw at him, he deserved it.  
My feet take me to the library subconsciously, and I find myself collapsing in an armchair by the fireplace. I don’t realize how cold I am until the heat of the fire seeps into me. I bury my head in my arms, trying to summon the anger I felt moments ago, but it doesn’t come. All I feel is… tired. Sad, lonely.  
I feel sleepy, and I don’t want to fall asleep here, so I get up to go back to the dormitory. But there’s something else I want to do tonight.  
❖❖❖

The owlery is wide and emptier now than it had been a few months ago. It’s cleaner, too. But my eyes wander to the sky, where the stars weave through the clouds like lights on a Christmas tree. There had been so many nights like this, when I’d been in a frozen tent, searching for another Horcrux, and staring at the sky, wishing and wondering when this would be over.  
I attach the letter folded in my pocket to one of the owls resting on a perch. I had written it on the train here, intending to send it as soon as I arrived. But with the new dormitories and Malfoy, it had slipped my mind.  
I watch the owl fly away, and then turn around to leave. 

❖❖❖

Malfoy is sitting on the couch, and he jumps to his feet when I walk in. His eyes look nervous, and his hair appears ruffled as though he’s been running his hand through it.  
“Granger—” he starts, but cuts himself off. For a moment, I think he’s going to apologize, but then he just mutters, “Prefects have patrols starting tomorrow,” and walks away to his room. The door shuts behind him, and I blink, surprised. 

DRACO

Her words swirl around in my head until I feel sick to my stomach. After all, I’m just a mudblood, right? Mudblood. I’d lost track of how many times I’d said that slur to someone—spat it at them like some sort of curse. I’d lost track of how many times I’d said it to her, to goad Potter, or make myself feel better, or perhaps to fit into the Malfoy I was supposed to be.  
My mind drifts off to her other words, the words she had hurled at me about Dumbledore’s death. Nothing she said was wrong, and that was what made me so angry. I had killed him, no matter what mother told me, or what I tried to tell myself. It it weren’t for me, that old wizard would still be alive, would still be at this school, healing and rebuilding. Maybe the final battle would have been different. Maybe he would have been Voldemort’s match, and maybe one little Avada Kedavra from his wand would be enough to finish off Voldemort once and for all. Maybe—maybe stupid Potter and Weasley and Granger wouldn’t have ended up in my manor, all white-faced and desperate.  
My eyes burn as I picture her on that day. Hair mussed, eyes red and lips pale and trembling as she shook in front of Bellatrix. The manic, deranged gleam in my aunt’s eyes as she had tauntingly traced a blade down her skin. My feet were rooted to the ground, my eyes drawn to her, unable to look away in horror and terror at the torture happening in front of me. I had seen her eyes that day, and stared back at the pain in them. If I had any semblance of compassion and morality remaining after Dumbledore, I had lost it all in that moment as I watched her beg me silently and I refused to move.  
Despite everything—despite all I have done and been forced to do, I still seek reassurance. From her, from my mother, from anyone that might tell me that I am not beyond saving. And so I convince myself that is why I creep out of my room and knock on her door.  
She answers a moment later, her face softer, more passive. I feel a pulse of relief at seeing her… normal again. It had been unnerving to watch her cry and rage, and stew in the knowledge that I was causing her unraveling.  
She raises her eyebrows. “What is it?”  
I clear my throat awkwardly, unsure why I thought for a moment that she might invite me inside. “I’m sorry,” I blurt.  
She studies me, her face revealing nothing.  
So I continue, my words raw and slightly rushed, “I didn’t mean what I said about you not belonging here.” My throat dries a little as I say, “And I’m sorry about that night at the manor. I don’t—I don’t believe that pureblood superiority madness anymore.”  
There is a beat of silence. And then she says, “I didn’t think you had it in you to apologize.”  
I freeze a little a that, but I don’t know what to respond with.  
She continues, her face still carefully concealing her thoughts, “Not because I think you’re a terrible, heartless person who feels no remorse. But because you’ve never been able to separate your own feelings from what your family has told you. Isn’t that why you became a Death Eater?”  
My breath shakes as I say, “I have no family anymore.” I don’t just mean that both my parents are in Azkaban, and from the look that flashes over her face, I know she understands.  
She stares at my left arm brazenly, and asks, “Is it still there? The Dark Mark?”  
I bristle uncomfortably, but nod. And I don’t know why I choose to show her, but I pull the sleeve of my robe up on my left arm to reveal the dark, daunting pattern etched onto my skin. It’s lighter now, almost hard to see, but the pattern is undeniable.  
Her eyes follow the whorls of ink, and her fingers touch the skin there tentatively. I stand so still, I am barely breathing. Something about this feels so vulnerable, so deep and raw.  
“It’s—” she bites her lip, “I’ve never seen one before.” She glances up at me, withdrawing her hand, and clarifies, “In real life, I mean. I’ve seen them in books, but not in person, so close up.”  
I roll my sleeve down, dropping my hand at my side again. “There’s no way to remove the mark. Not completely, at least.”  
Her face turns softer, more contemplative. “You don’t know that.”  
I shake my head. “And you do?”  
She grins and taps a finger to her temple. “I know more than you think, Malfoy.”  
A laugh cracks out of me. “I don’t doubt it, Granger. If you wanted to find an answer, you would, and nothing would stop you.”  
She beams a little at that, but says after a moment of silence, “Thank you. For saying this.” I nod, knowing she does not mean the comment I just made.  
I give a half-smile and offer, “You know, Granger, having you as my roommate might not be the worst thing.”  
She smiles, and I feel my chest tighten at the warmth of it. “I can certainly think of worst things.”  
I return to my room a few minutes later, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. And I can’t help the tiny smile that tugs on the corners of my mouth, though I don’t quite know why I am suddenly so happy. 

That night, I fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning. 

 

“Do it, Draco.” Bellatrix urges me, somewhat restlessly.  
A girl is stretched out on the marble floor in front of me, sobbing and curled in a fetal position, her bushy dark hair strewn around her face, stark against the marble floor, parts of it plastered to her head with sweat. Her face is one of fear and terror. She looks up at me pleadingly, unable to move or speak, whether from trauma, or from a spell, I don’t know. My hand is shaking as I hold the wand over her head. Next to me, Bellatrix laughs, a high cruel sound, and Father looks on coolly, waiting for me. in the corner. Mother’s face is pale and drawn, but she nods encouragingly at me once.  
As if from far away, I see myself point my arm at her helpless form, watch as a jet of harsh red light shoots out from my wand and strikes her. “Crucio!” I yell out.  
Her screams continue long after I’ve removed the spell and as tears fall from her face, she transforms into the Hermione I saw earlier in the dorm. I still stand in front of her, tears streaming down my face as well. She rises to her feet, unmarked, looking angry and murderous.  
She lets out a blood curdling scream and I look down at my hands. I realize I am clutching a cruel-looking knife in one hand. But more strikingly, my hands are dripping with red blood.

 

I wake up in cold sweat, my hands pale and trembling, and her scream still ringing in my ears. I hear another high pitched scream and at first, I think it’s just my mind recalling my dream, but then I realize it’s real.  
It’s coming from Granger’s room.  
I release a shaky breath and run a hand through my hair. I shouldn’t go. It’s none of my business, and she would only be embarrassed if she saw me. I’m not the person she wants to comfort her, I remind myself.  
Her screams subside, and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. But then she lets out a whimper, and it sounds so broken and helpless, that I am thrown back into that night at the manor. She had needed help then, and I hadn’t given it to her.  
Cursing low under my breath, I toss the sheets aside and leave my room.  
I don’t let myself think before I wrench open the doorknob to her room. My feet race to the edge of her bed, and I shake her lightly by the arms.  
“Hermione,” I murmur.  
Her eyes snap open, and she jolts upright in bed.  
I bite my lip and drop my hands from hers, stepping back. Her pupils are dilated, her breathing heavy.  
“It’s me,” I say quietly.  
Her gaze washes over me, and she says steadily, “Did I wake you?”  
I shake my head, “No. I was having—nightmares as well.”  
Her eyes soften then, in understanding. “It’s worse when I’m back here. It just drags up old memories, you know?”  
I nod, “It was unbearable sleeping at the manor those first few months.” It still is, I say silently.  
Something shifts on her face, and she says quietly, “A lot of horrible things must have happened there.”  
Guilt claws at my throat, and I say softly, “I’m sorry, Hermione. I should have—I should have done something. I should have found a way to help you.”  
She stares at me for a long while, and I know exactly what memory my face brings her to. But after a moment longer, she says, “There’s no point dwelling on what we can’t change. Maybe everything happens for a reason. I don’t regret what happened that night, because I was helping Harry, and I was doing it to stop the darkest wizard to ever walk this earth.”  
But seeing the horror on her face, the terror and the sorrow, hurts me deeper than I anticipated. “But you can’t forgive me, can you?” I say bitterly.  
She stiffens, but only says, “You have to forgive yourself, Malfoy.”  
I don’t say anything at that, but I see the way her eyes shutter, and I know she wants to be alone. And I know that this conversation has probably dredged up more awful memories and thoughts, and that my face will always be a reminder of that. So I quietly leave and close the door behind me, because the last thing I want is for Hermione Granger to see me cry.


	4. Chapter Four

HERMIONE

When I wake the next morning, for a moment, I forget what happened last night. But it all comes rushing back with sudden clarity, and I remember the words we’d shared. Maybe my nightmare, and the horror fresh in mind, or the intimacy of the nighttime had made me more vulnerable, more open and willing to share. But I regret it, I realize bitterly. He’s Draco Malfoy for god’s sake. We’re not friends, we’re not meant to be anything at all to each other. I must have been out of my mind last night.   
Frowning slightly, I dress into my robes and gather my bag for the first day of class. I don’t see Malfoy on my way out, and judging by the door to his room left slightly ajar, I’m guessing he already left. Pushing past the treacherous thoughts that threaten to rise to the surface of my mind, I leave the dormitory.   
I meet Harry and Ron at the Great Hall, with both of them looking a little worse for the wear.   
I grin, grabbing a dinner roll from the center of the table. “You both look like you’ve been run over by Buckbeak. What happened?”  
Ron gapes at me.“What happened?” he shrieks. “What happened is that Bruce Wilson is a bloody nightmare.” Harry looks amused as he butters his toast.  
Ron waves a hand dismissively at the blank look on my face, and says around his mouthful of bacon, “Bruce Wilson, my new Ravenclaw roommate.”  
I pile some eggs onto my plate and say, “Well, you don’t quite get along with anyone, so I’m not very surprised.”  
Ron stares at me in disbelief, and then sputters indignantly, “Hermione, he is the messiest, most disgusting slob I’ve ever met in my life. He left his clothes all over the common room, the bathroom is a bloody mess, and then he stole my towel to use for his shower.”  
I make a face at that last bit, and Ron groans.   
“At least you got a bloke,” Harry says. “I got Divya Ross, and she won’t shut up about her bloody brother.”  
“What happened to him?” I ask, suppressing a laugh.   
“He got put in Gryffindor,” he says flatly.  
This time, I do laugh, and they both glare at me. “Oh come on, you both could use some of this.”  
“Some of what?” Ron says defensively.  
“Making new friends,” I chuckle.   
“Well, I suppose you have it worst of all,” Harry muses. I shrug.  
“What’s he like?” Ron asks, not quite able to keep the disdain out of his voice.   
“You make it sound as if he turns into a dragon at night,” I chide.  
Harry mutters under his breath amusedly, “More like he turns into a ferret at night.”  
Ron grins, and I hold back a smile of my own. “He’s fine.”   
At the look that crosses Ron’s face, I add with a grin, “Quite honestly, I think I have it the best out of the three of us.”  
But Ron doesn’t laugh. He frowns slightly as he says, “You know, I don’t know what got into McGonagall. I never would have thought she’d make you room with him. I mean, she knows what happened, and she still didn’t budge when we asked her.”  
Avoiding his gaze, I say, “He’s not that bad, you know.” Flashes of last night surface in my mind, and I recall the soft look in his eyes as he’d woken me, the broken boy who’d showed me his scar. He is damaged, but so are we.   
There’s a brief silence. And then Ron scoffs with a faint look of disgust on his face, “No, I don’t know.”  
I glance towards Harry, silently pleading him to understand, but his face remains blank. So I crumple my napkin into a ball, still not looking at him, and say, “Oh, don’t get that look, Ron.”  
“He hasn’t changed, Hermione,” Harry says, with a shared glance with Ron.  
“I’m not saying he has,” I snap. “But we’ve all just been through a war, and it’s natural for that to have an effect on him. And his parents are in Azkaban, and—” I break off, and take a deep breath. “He’s not the same boy who bullied us when we were first years, Harry,” I finish quietly.   
Harry shakes his head, but Ron says angrily, “You’ve gone mad. Have you forgotten what he’s done to us?”  
“We were kids Ron! We’ve all grown up now, and so has he!”  
“Why are you defending him, Hermione?” Ron asks, and the shock and frustration in his voice is enough to make me pause.   
I dig my fingers into my hair and sigh. When I look at him again, I’m taken back to that night in the Burrow when I broke up with him. He looks the same now as he had then. Confused, frustrated, disappointed, sad. And just like that, I feel my anger and frustration vanish, and I whisper, “I don’t know. I’m just—”  
I cut myself off, shaking my head. I’m surprised to find myself holding down tears as I say, “He was a kid, too, Ron. I know he wasn’t good, but—he was a kid.”  
Ron just shakes his head in disbelief and disgust, stuffs his books in his bag, and leaves the table.   
I turn to Harry, frustrated and desperate. “Don’t tell me you agree with him.”  
He shakes his head, “Dumbledore is dead because of him.” The words are flat, and I feel myself getting defensive.   
“You know better than anyone it wasn’t that simple—”  
“He may not be pure evil, Hermione, but… he’s a Malfoy. .”   
The words irritate me, though I don’t know why. I bite my lip, frustrated, angry and unsure. “I haven’t forgiven him. I just don’t think everything is quite as black and white as you make it out to be, Harry. What was it Sirius once told you? The world isn’t divided into just good people and Death Eaters.”  
Harry bristles, “I know. I know, but Malfoy—” he breaks off, shaking his head. It is enough for me, and I rise to my feet.   
“See you in class,” I mutter, and then gather my things and leave. 

Ron is still not speaking to me in Potions class, and I am done trying to apologize to him. It isn’t my fault for choosing to see the good in everyone, and if he can’t believe me, then—fine.   
I partner up with Lavender to brew the potion Slughorn assigns us, while Harry works with Ron. Stubbornly avoiding both of them, I linger behind in the dungeon after everyone leaves.   
“Professor Slughorn,” I say hesitantly, approaching his desk as he shuffles through rolls of parchment. He peers up at me, and I feel myself talk before I think it through. “I have a question relating to Dark Magic, specifically the removal it.”  
When his face turns wary, and I feel him closing off, I add, “It’s something I was interested about, particularly after the war. I believe it could serve useful.”  
“Yes, what is it, Miss Granger?”  
“How would one remove a Dark Mark once they’d already been branded with it?”  
At first, he pauses, as if caught by surprise. And then he laughs, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Interested for a friend, eh?”   
I force myself to smile, my heart beating dangerously wild in my chest. “More like Ministry policy.”  
He clasps his hands together under his chin, and purses his lips. “I’m afraid it’s a vain effort, Miss Granger. It’s Dark Magic that cannot be undone.”  
“Professor, you know better than anyone that everything has a cure,” I push, even as my heart sinks. I hadn’t really been sure—but Slughorn had studied potions and dark magic for decades. He would know if there was anything out there.  
Slughorn merely shakes his head. “Some Dark Magic is old, Miss Granger. Far older than you and I. You-Know-Who was very practiced in the arts, and he created an utterly permanent brand for his followers.”  
I stiffen, and say, “His name is Voldemort.”  
Slughorn chuckles, “Alas, old habits die hard.”  
I sense that he has nothing more to say, so I slide my bag onto my shoulder and mumble, “Thanks. I should be getting back now.”  
He waves his hand in dismissal, and I leave the cold, sickly air of the dungeons, feeling worse than when I’d walked in.


	5. Chapter Five

DRACO

I realize around second or third period that I have a shadow.   
Camden trails behind me, far enough away to avoid arousing notice, but close enough to follow me. Turning around on my heel abruptly, I glower at him, “What’s your problem?”  
His eyes widen and he fidgets a little with the hem of his robes. “Nothing. I just—I thought I could use you to get to know where everything is, since I’m a bit lost—”  
“You must have it real rough,” I snort sarcastically. I drop my voice an octave to warn, “We’re not friends, Camden. So find something better to do than follow me around.”  
Hurt flashes on his face, and I roll my eyes in irritation. Since when did I become approachable?   
“You could’ve used a friend around here, you know,” is all he said as he walks away. I frown at his retreating figure, feeling irritated. He is unusually bold for a scrawny little first year.   
As I enter the Charms classroom, I can’t help but notice the students around me and be reminded once again that I am the only Slytherin eighth year. And a look around at the green-robed students around me shooting my dirty looks tells me that my other housemates won’t be so welcoming either. Camden’s words repeat in my head, and I scowl, mentally cursing him.   
Maybe that’s why I’m so pliable and lonely when I return to my dormitory that night. I’d wandered the halls for prefects patrols, passing by the kitchens several times to nick a bottle of firewhiskey. It hadn’t been strong enough to smother my misery, though I didn’t quite know why I was feeling so low-spirited. I suppose the truth in Camden’s words had struck me, and not having anyone to talk to all day had only dulled my spirits.   
The lights are all on as I step inside to find Granger cross-legged on the sofa, face screwed up in concentration. A part of me warns me to leave her alone, to shut myself in my room and ignore her, but another increasingly persistent part of me begs me to sit with her, to coax an insult, a smile, anything, from her.   
Her head finally rises as she notices me shuffling around by the door. She gives me a cursory glance and then goes back to the books laid out before her.   
“You look terrible,” I scoff, taking a seat in the armchair across from her. “Any particular reason why?” I say the words with an edge, the taunt evident.   
“It must be because you walked in,” she shoots back, not even lifting her head from her homework.   
I scowl, though she can’t see it, and try again. “You don’t ever stop with the books, do you? Does it even matter anymore?”  
She knows what I mean; I can see it in her eyes when she looks up at me. “It’s a nice change from worrying about the fate of the wizarding world.” The words are achingly honest, and for a moment, I wonder why she is being so open with me. It makes me uncomfortable, this raw honesty, especially with her, so I direct the conversation to something lighter.   
“Having a row with Potter and his ginger sidekick?”  
She frowns, casting me a disapproving look, and snaps, “None of your business, Malfoy.”  
I shrug, “You’re so obvious, I can’t help it.”  
“I am not having a row with them,” she huffs indignantly. “I never said I was.”  
I laugh a little this time, at how defensive she is getting. “You didn’t have to. There’s nothing else that would make you so mopey.”  
“What is it to you, Malfoy?”   
When I don’t answer, she grows angry. “You want a psychoanalysis, Malfoy? What about the fact that your parents and your friends have all left you, and everyone hates you because you were on the losing side of the war, and you’re so desperate for any scraps of your old life that you’ve resorted to a desperate attempt to rile me up? How was that, Malfoy? Did that cover just about everything?”  
My mouth tightens into a thin line, and I grind out, “Oh, and you must be living a ruddy wonderful life. Is that why you wake up every night screaming from nightmares, like the broken, damaged thing you are?”   
Hurt flashes in her eyes, and I ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I fire, “How does that feel, Granger? Does it feel like you won the war when you remember what you had to sacrifice for it?”  
She flinches at my words, and I know I have gone too far. Her face closes off as she flicks her wand and all her books and parchment slip neatly into her bag. She grabs her bag and leaves before I can say anything to her, slamming the door with enough force to make me cringe. 

Frustrated that I’ve only proven Camden right by driving away another person, and furious at myself for coming to accept her presence, I lock myself in my room until sleep finds me hours later, her face and my nightmares having kept it at bay. 

The sun is high in the sky when I wake up, and I savor the start of the weekend for a few moments before hunger pulls me out of bed sooner than I’d like. I step into the common room, hearing the shower running on the other side of the wall, and I’m tempted to wait for her before I leave.  
Last night’s words replay in my head, and a sickening sense of dread pools in my stomach. I shouldn’t have sat with her in the dormitory. I should just leave her be, give her space and ignore her. But I’ve known since that night when I woke her up, when I saw that broken, vulnerable look in her eyes, that we had crossed a line. We had shared things that hurt too deep to talk about, and I… I couldn’t stay away.  
Jolting a bit when the bathroom door opens and draws me out my thoughts, my eyes snap to hers. She’s wrapped in a white towel, hair damp and hanging loose against her back. Her eyebrows raise and I realize I’m staring. But my attention drifts to her arm, where something is carved into her skin, the letters twisting and marring her skin in a way that feels so cold and wrong. I step closer, straining to read the words, and my heart drops when I realize what it is. One word. Mudblood. I recognize the wound, still angry-looking and raw, as the one my aunt had given her.  
“Granger…”  
“Do you mind?” she huffs, drawing her towel tighter around her.  
I lift my gaze reluctantly from her arm to meet her eyes. “Why is it not healed yet?” The words are quiet, hushed.  
Her face darkens as she realizes where I’m looking, and she pulls her arm away, obscuring the mark from my gaze in the folds of her towel. “You know why.”  
I do. My hands go slack at my sides as I say, “There has to be something. No one figured out how to heal it?”  
She looks away, knuckles white as she clenches the towel in her fist, and I know the answer.  
“But the Order—”  
“They tried,” she says flatly. I can hear the waver in her voice, and it stirs something in me. No one deserves this.  
“They couldn’t find anything.” Her throat bobs and she gives a strained smile. “It’s alright. People have had worse. It’s just a scar.”  
My throat is tight as I say, “One that you don’t deserve.”  
She gives me a sorrowful look, and it is too much to bear, so I turn and leave, silently vowing to myself and to her that I will find a way to heal that scar.

HERMIONE

Something about the look on Malfoy’s face and the words he said unnerves me. There was concern on his face this morning, sorrow and concern, and it shakes me deeper than I realize. I brush it aside as I stride through the halls to find the library. It’s natural, and he only feels pity because it was his aunt, his family, who did this to me. Malfoy isn’t changing, he’s always been like this, it’s just that I haven’t ever seen it. I recall the words I’d hurled at him that first day in the dormitory, when I’d told him that Dumbledore had been wrong in trusting him, in seeing the good in him. But lately, I’ve found myself doing the same.  
Madam Pince gives me a rare smile as I enter the cool, musty air of the library, and I return it, recalling the warm words and support she’d given me when I had tried to find books on how to heal the dark magic Bellatrix had branded me with. I think, after that, we’d come to a sort of solemn understanding and mutual respect.  
I deliberate whether I should share this with her, but after a moment, I find myself walking over to her desk.  
“Madam Pince,” I begin slowly, watching her eyes as they dart up from her parchment and tattered pages.  
She regards me with a brisk, assessing gaze. “Ms. Granger.”  
“I was searching for a book on the reversal of dark magic.”  
When she begins to speak, I cut her off. “Not—not my mark. I was actually thinking more of, suppose, a Dark Mark.”  
Her eyes sharpen, and I sense her grow cautious. But she doesn’t ask why, or whom I’m asking for. She merely says, “We don’t have books like that here.”  
I nod, expecting this. “So it’s never been done before?”  
She gives me a scrutinizing look, but finally says, “Voldemort was the only one who ever conjured a mark like that. It was magic of his own invention.”  
“But none of the Death Eaters ever found a way to remove it?”  
“I suspect many have tried, but not to my knowledge, no.”  
I hesitate for a beat, and then ask, “I think I’d like to read about it though. I might find something useful.”  
She looks unconvinced, but I prompt, “It’s in the restricted section…”  
To my surprise, she doesn’t hesitate before she nods her consent. “Look through whatever you like.”  
I spend the rest of the day there, reading through books with titles that seem promising, and marking pages that mention something new. It’s dark outside when Madam Pince tells me to gather my things and leave before the library closes, and I realize, walking through the moonlit halls, that I’ve missed dinner at the Great Hall. Stomach grumbling, I walk sleepily to my dormitory, weighing whether I should find something to eat in the kitchens or just fall asleep.  
My shoulder is aching from the books in my bag by the time I reach the portrait and mutter the password. The lights are all dark as I enter and waste no time collapsing onto my bed and falling asleep.


	6. Chapter Six

DRACO

“Evening, Mr. Blackwell. Do you remember me? I’m Lucius Malfoy’s son, Draco. I know you and father were very close.” I pause, smirking a little. “I called because I have a favor to ask.” I force my tone into one that imitates Father’s. Cold, menacing, aristocratic.  
“Aah yes. Lucius’s son. Yes, he spoke of you often.” There’s a slight falter, and I can taste the ingenuity in his words as he says, “I can’t promise you anything, but I will do everything I can. What favor do you ask of?” His tone is measured, and I smile faintly knowing he is now weighing whether he can trust me. Whether he should fear me.  
“You see, I have a—friend, who was attacked horribly during the war. Her scars won’t fade and no healer can cure it. It’s an archaic form of Dark Magic. I expect you have a remedy for it.”  
“Ah,” he says quietly. “I have heard rumors of this kind of Dark Magic, where the cuts do not heal by—er, conventional methods. It was one of Bellatrix’s specialties, I believe. But you do understand Mr. Malfoy, that some Dark Magic will never heal?”  
My stomach twinges at this, though I tell myself I don’t care. I’ve done enough. I’ve tried. How can I heal her when no one from the Order managed to do it? But her face flashes in my mind again, and I feel a familiar guilt crawling over my skin. This is my fault. She has endured this because of a decision I made that night not to help her.  
I clear my throat. “Mr. Blackwell, it’s been rather long since you visited Malfoy Manor hasn’t it?” I rush on, not giving him the chance to answer. “Do you remember that lovely little silver goblet we had in the entry hall? It’s actually a heirloom of Slytherin’s, if I’m not wrong. We were recently thinking of giving it away. You would be interested, I suppose?”  
There is a long silence on the other end of the line, and I wait for him to reply, knowing that he will not refuse this offer.  
“I have heard of a sort of healing salve on the market, that helps counteract the Dark Magic’s effects to allow for a more effective healing process. It can be acquired, if you will let me, er, see the goblet again, if you catch my meaning.”  
My lip curls up in a smile. “Of course. It was a pleasure talking with you, Mr. Blackwell.”  
“Likewise, Mr. Malfoy.” I can practically hear him smirk on the other end. “Have a good evening.”  
With that, there is a small click on the other end of the receiver, and the line goes silent, leaving me smiling grimly at the phone, wondering if Mr. Blackwell knows how good the Malfoys are at counterfeits.

My conversation with that decrepit old wizard has significantly improved my mood, and perhaps even pushes me to mend another bridge.  
I feign as much indifference as I can as I claim the seat in the Great Hall next to Camden’s. His face snaps to the side as he takes me in, and I tighten my lips into a faint scowl as he gives me no more than a cursory glance before returning to his food. I don’t miss the fact that he is sitting alone again. And I know the feeling—am feeling it right now.  
So I raise my brows and say, “You asked me if I was here during the battle.”  
He waits a long moment before lifting his gaze to mine. “So?”  
I stiffen a little, but force my voice neutral when I say, “Did you know who I was?”  
He stares at me intently before he finally says, “Draco Malfoy. Retired Death Eater, daddy’s little boy, racist pureblood, and Hogwarts’ biggest bully.”  
“What is it you want me to say, Camden?” I say angrily, feeling my temper flaring. Too much. This was too much. I don’t know why I bother with him.  
“I don’t know,” he says calmly. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not friends, Malfoy.”  
“I’m sorry,” I snap, not quite feeling sorry at all in the moment. Camden scowls at the edge in my voice, but remains seated.  
“I knew who you were,” he says finally, meeting my eyes steadily. “But you didn’t tell me, so I assumed you didn’t want to talk about it.”  
I swallow the tightness in my throat and nod. “You don’t hate me.”  
He raises his eyebrows, “I never said that.” But he gives a little smile and glances at me out of the corner of his eye and he turns back to his food.  
I return the smile and lift my fork to start eating. “Right.”

The last rays of sunshine peek through the curtains of the hallways as I walk back to my dorm. I finger the small bulge in the pocket of my robes, smiling faintly. It had arrived this evening by owl, and I had resisted the urge to find her in the middle of class to give it to her.  
I climb through the portrait hole and enter to see Hermione sitting cross legged on one of the settees in the common room, hunched over her books, pieces of hair falling out of her bun and into her eyes as she works. I let my gaze linger a little, feeling the sudden urge to tuck the loose strands behind her ear.  
She glances up at me from her parchment, hearing me shuffle around in the doorway. I reach inside my robes to pull out the small tin of salve, holding it up for her to see.  
“It’s for you,” I say, suddenly feeling very awkward.  
“What is it?” she asks, voice wary.  
I clear my throat, approaching her on the sofa to offer it to her. “A salve. To put on your scar. It should get rid of it, if you apply it twice a day for a week. It’s on the label…” I trail off, aware that I’m rambling.  
Hermione snatches the salve from my hand, eyes furiously poring over the label, as though if she looks hard enough, she’ll find all the answers on the tiny black script on the label. Her lips are silently mouthing the ingredients, and they part a little in surprise.  
“Where did you get it?” she asks quietly.  
I feel the words on my tip of my tongue, a smirk coming up to rest on my lips, through my father’s connections, of course. But I don’t want to ruin the moment with meaningless banter, so I shrug, “Asked around.”  
Her eyes widen a little in curiosity, but she sets the salve down and looks up at me.   
“Thanks,” she says, a small, tentative smile on her lips, and I think, it was worth it.  
“There are some pretty rare ingredients on there,” she says, raising her brows a little. “It’s not exactly something you can get at Diagon Alley.” She gives me a knowing look, and I shrug again.  
Anything would be worth it. Worth you, I want to say, but I don’t. I just shake my head a little and say, “Everything’s there if you know where to look.” A vague, roundabout way of telling her that the Order would likely not approve of how I got it. She nods like she understands, and then she’s smiling again, and I’m staring, and I quickly look away before I can do anything else.  
“Goodnight,” I mutter.  
Just before I turn to retreat back to my room, she smiles, “Goodnight.”  
Three smiles, I think, unable to believe my luck.  
I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep that night, a ghost of a smile still on my face.


	7. Chapter Seven

HERMIONE

Something comes over me the next morning, and I visit the house elves in the kitchen before dawn, when the darkness wraps around the moon and the hallways are lit with the whitish glow. A few summers ago, I had visited Italy with my parents, and my aunt had showed me how to make several different pasta dishes. It had only taken some sifting around in the kitchen, and one house elf in particular—Darcy—had been surprisingly well informed on Italian dishes as she was originally from there. Reluctant as she was to pass over the cooking to me, after a few hours in the kitchen, I’d like to think I’d made some progress with her.  
I’m balancing two steaming plates of a shrimp and alfredo pasta, made almost exactly as my aunt had made it that summer, as I stumble slightly into the common room. I’d left the extra pasta for the elves, knowing they probably wouldn’t accept, but choosing to leave it there anyway.  
Malfoy cracks the door to his room open when he hears me in the doorway. He’s shirtless and wet, the water from his shower still glistening on his skin, and he only has a pair of loose trousers on.  
I scowl, “Put a shirt on,” but look my fill anyway. His chest is lined faintly with white scars, and I wonder how he got them, but it doesn’t take long to guess. Lifting my gaze up to his eyes, I find him smirking.  
I’m considering making a sharp retort about how he hadn’t exactly looked away when I was half-dressed last time, but his gaze drifts to the plates in my hands and his eyebrows raise.  
“You made that?”  
I scoff a little, but feel just a tiny bit pleased with myself all the same. “Why is it such a surprise?”  
He huffs a laugh, and my cheeks warm a little. I’d brought two plates… because I had extra, and there was no point eating alone. Though if I was being honest, I’d looked at my fading scar this morning and felt a surge of relief and gratitude so strong it had made my heart race.  
So I move the plate towards him in an offer. “Here. I made enough for two.”  
He raises his brows but takes the plate, setting it on the table in the common room before slipping back to his room and muttering something about how he had to change.

Afterwards, I suggest walking to the Great Hall. “It’s almost time for breakfast.”  
Malfoy looks mildly alarmed as he says, “Granger, we just ate.”  
I laugh at the almost offended look on his face. “Not to eat, just…” I trail off, trying to find the right words. To talk with my friends? For some reason, I feel awkward telling him that, since I doubt he has anyone there that he wants to see.   
He must sense the unfinished words because he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “Let’s go.”  
I drape my cloak over my shoulders and leave the dormitory behind him, blushing a little. Why was I so awkward? He probably has friends. And if he doesn’t... well, that’s his own fault.   
We’re walking in silence when he asks, “Would you have come back if it wasn’t required?”  
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. It’s the truth. I always intended to return here to finish my final year.   
I glance up at the darkness clouding behind his eyes and ask as casually as I can, “Would you have?” I know what the answer is, but he looks…contemplative.   
He’s quiet for so long I wonder if he’s even going to answer. But just before we reach the Great Hall he says, “No. I wouldn’t have.”  
He’s gone before I can glance up in surprise, and I watch him sit next to a blonde haired Slytherin. A first or second year, from what I can tell. I turn around a moment later, and my stomach turns violently as I recall the last conversation I’d had with Harry and Ron.   
Ron is in a considerably better mood, though I doubt he would be jumping with glee if he’d seen Malfoy and I walk in together. Or if I told him that Malfoy had healed my scar. He means well, I know, but I can’t help that a part of me wants to forgive Malfoy. Holding a grudge is tiring, and he’s changed in very real ways. For better or for worse, the war has forced him to mature into someone else. 

 

❖❖❖

 

 

  
HERMIONE

As I lay in bed two nights later, thoughts of Malfoy run through my mind. It feels surreal, that he has somehow found a cure for my scar. I think of how it will feel to be able to wear short sleeves, to be able to move on from that horrible night just a little bit more.  
His face, unbidden, comes to mind again. I think back to when he gave me the salve, when the sun turned his delicate blond hair to something closer to gold, dusting his face with a layer of heavenly sunlight. But even as angelic as he looked then, I cannot erase the image of him in Malfoy Manor from my mind—a cold, marble statue, refusing me help.  
But he had apologized for that. He had come into my room, tears on his face, the image of that night burned into my mind. And he had been kind towards me lately, giving me the salve when we both know he didn’t have to. And recently, I feel as though I’ve found something of a friend in him. Something other than the temperature heating my cheeks, I pull the covers off me and grab my wand to go outside and clear my head.   
I thought Malfoy would be asleep by now, so I’m surprised to see a light on in the common room. He's scratching away at a piece of parchment, and he doesn’t see me from the doorway. I let myself admire him for a moment. The white-blond hair that’s normally so tidy is tousled with a few strands falling into his gray eyes, narrowed in concentration. He’s wearing only a black shirt and a loose pair of trousers, the planes and angles of his body more noticeable in this lighting. He’s not quite muscled, but he’s no longer a scrawny teenager either. His arms are surprisingly defined, though still slim and narrow. The top button of his shirt is undone, revealing a sliver of skin—  
I must have moved slightly, because his neck snaps up and his eyes settle on me. He smirks as he realizes I’ve been standing there a while, and my cheeks heat a little. The intensity of his gaze on me almost makes me shiver and I wish I’d put on something other than my sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt.   
“Staring at me again, Granger?” he asks, eyes dancing with amusement.  
“No,” I say, too quickly for it to be believable. “I couldn’t sleep. I came out to get a glass of water.”  
Any amusement vanishes. “Nightmares?”  
“No,” I say, shaking my head. Was that concern in his voice? I almost tease him about it, but I say instead, “What about you? Why are you up this late?”  
“I’m writing a letter to Pansy. It’s kind of been a while,” he says, a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that makes me want to kick him.  
“Pansy?” I try, and fail, to keep the envy and curiosity out of my voice. “What are you writing, a love letter?” The joke doesn’t come out quite as convincing out loud.   
“Jealous, Granger?” Malfoy taunts, in a way that makes it obvious why he brought up Pansy in the first place. To see if he could provoke me. The thought stirs something in me, though I don’t know if it’s annoyance that he’s provoking me or interest that he thinks I would be jealous. “What do you care if I write to Pansy?”   
It’s the unbearable smirk on his face that makes me scowl. “I don’t. You can write to whoever you want.”  
The humor fades from his face, and he grows suddenly quiet. “I was actually writing to my mum. You know, she worries, after the war and everything.”  
A small, surprised, “Oh” comes out, and there’s a moment of charged silence in the room.   
He glances down and notices my shoes are on.  
“Going out to visit Weasley tonight?” he asks jokingly, and there’s no judgement or snideness, but underneath the teasing, I could swear there’s something strained in his voice.   
“I’ll have you know he and I broke up this summer.” I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe. “What do you care if I visit him anyway?” I ask, teasing him now. He laughs, and his whole demeanor changes, his body relaxing. I smile, and realize I like this new Malfoy, the one that smiles at me and brings me healing salve and writes to his mum. He stands and asks, “I’m heading out to the Owlery. You want to er— come with me?”  
“Yeah, because walking out with a cute boy at night won’t make Filch suspicious.”  
Malfoy's eyes widen and he starts laughing again. “Granger, did you just call me—”  
I blush furiously, realizing the word that had slipped from my mouth. “No,” I say quickly. “I just meant—I mean, that’s just what other girls say. They seem to think you’re cute.” I ramble, the rosy tinge in my cheeks giving it away.  
He just laughs again, but it’s not mocking or derisive, and something bright and hopeful shines on his face, and I can’t help but think how I want to hear him laugh like that again. I want to learn more about the boy behind that laughter, the boy who he doesn’t seem to show to other people very often.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter will have a Draco POV


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